We waited in the hospital lobby while the staff prepared the final paperwork. It was a familiar place to us—soft voices, the steady hum of machines behind the walls, families moving in and out with quiet courage. While we sat there, Liam noticed a man across the room. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a leather vest covered in patches. His arms were marked with tattoos, the kind that told stories without words.
You might have hesitated to approach him. But Liam didn’t.
I almost said no, out of politeness and worry. Before I could decide, the man stood and walked toward us with a gentle smile. He crouched to meet my son’s eyes and said, “Hey there, little man. I’m Mike.”
Liam smiled back. “I’m Liam. Are you a real biker?”
Mike chuckled softly. “Sure am. Been riding for many years.”
Liam’s expression softened with something like nostalgia. “My dad really liked motorcycles,” he said quietly.
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